


Trouble Ahead, Trouble Behind

by gloss



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Different kind of conduit, Multi, Pegging, Smut, Sublimation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-11
Updated: 2006-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something other than a Deep Consummation of Sacred Redemptive Love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble Ahead, Trouble Behind

## i. Oz

Never let it be said that Devon doesn't have Oz's back. 

"All I'm saying, dude, is that —" As Oz hands the bong back to him, Devon pauses to inhale. With his eyes closed and head tipped back, he looks almost serene. Seraphic. Then, as the smoke curls from his nostrils and lips, his lids flutter open, he cocks his head to the side. "What was I saying?" 

"Couldn't say." Oz liberates the bong, taps the carb, and gives up. Setting it aside, he rolls his shoulders and stretches. The haze of the room matches the haze in his bloodstream echoes the haze of Devon's thought-processes. "Oh. Me and Buffy." 

Devon jabs his finger. He seems to be aiming for Oz's chest, but he gets Oz's ear instead. " _Yeah_. You and Blondie Zombie Girly." He giggles. "Blondie Zombie Girly. I like that." 

"She's not a zombie." 

Devon's finger rotates slowly before Oz's eyes. "But she _fights_ zombies." 

"Among other things, yeah." Oz lies back on the rec room floor, arms crossed under his head. Squinting up at the flaking plaster on the ceiling, he presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He's in a room, his tongue is in a smaller room, it's a Russian-doll nesting of cages and containment. 

If he's not careful, he's going to drool. He can taste the weed, of course, and remnants of the cran-raspberry juice he had at lunch, and maybe, just maybe, Buffy. 

Angel says Buffy tastes like sunshine. Angel is, however, kind of sappy. Especially for someone with so many pairs of leather pants. Even if he doesn't wear them any more. 

He doesn't wear his pirate shirts, either, but that's probably a good thing. 

Oz rubs his eyes, relishes the sting of tears, and lifts his head. "What were we talking about?" 

Devon stops reloading the bong. "Fuck if I know." 

Oz puts his head back down, knits his fingers together over his chest, and breathes. When he's this stoned, he can almost breathe through his pores. Little puffs of air — exhale — little gulps — inhale. 

He's been smoking up a lot lately. Way more than usual. 

And it doesn't have a goddamn thing to do with Xander Harris. 

"Chill," Devon says and slides his hand up the right leg of Oz's pants. Tingles scatter up Oz's skin; the hairs stand up. 

Oz squeezes his eyes shut. How much did he say out loud? 

Only one way to find out. "How much did I say out loud?" 

Devon squeezes his leg, working his thumb down the spot that's always been sore since Oz developed shin splints during Track  & Field Day in seventh grade. "Something about Harris. Doesn't matter. You know what matters?" 

"Mmm." The noise just kind of leaks out Oz's mouth, tremolo past his lips, as Devon settles against his side. "What's that?" 

"How Power Girl's gonna break you in two one of these days." Devon licks his lips. Loud, this close, wet slick-slide over soft skin, and Oz rolls his head slowly to the side to see. 

"Huh?" He's lost the train of thought again. 

Not that Devon's much of an engineer. Unless he's Casey Jones. 

"She's scary, man," Devon says as he works his hand up under Oz's shirt. "Cute but fucking _scary_." 

"Nah," Oz says. Shivers when that hand, all long fingers that know every route by heart "She's all right." 

"But she's strong. You said she's, like, superpower-strong." 

"Yeah." He feels the smile curling his mouth before he knows what's happening. Buffy _is_ strong. 

* 

Library, the first full moon after Will kissed Xander and Cordy got gutted and Oz. 

That night, Oz didn't fall, or kiss, or do anything that anyone could see. His skin went too tight, just got tighter in the weeks that followed, while his insides (muscles, nerves, guts) shredded into tiny and tinier bits. 

He was confetti, walking. 

Buffy let him out of the cage, never looking at him. That was probably out of politeness, but in that moment, sick from the moon and sick of polite withdrawal, he couldn't quite stand it. 

"Not like I'm a leper," he said, stumbled against the card catalog, and when his eyes cleared, she was holding him up. 

"No," she replied and squeezed his arm. "No, of course not." 

The hot rush of anger vanished then and Oz tried to pull away. Attention, it turned out, was worse than its opposite. "Sorry." 

She didn't answer for a minute, just tightened her grip. She had much bigger things to worry about; Oz _knew_ that, and he just wanted to — what? Escape, that's all. Get out of there, not see the library again for another month. 

"It's all right," Buffy said finally and she sounded hoarse. He opened his mouth, but stopped when she shook her head. "I'm sorry." 

He didn't know, not exactly, what she was talking about. Big stuff, Slayer-shit, and Oz kept well away from that these days. Buffy loosened her hold and stepped back, into a beam of morning sun. Glowing hair, sad eyes, and Oz felt the scraps he'd been carrying around inside his skin start to lift and shift. Whirl like trash in an updraft. 

What happened next is still mixed up in Oz's mind. Just images, of Buffy lifting her head, fixing a stare on him, and his own garbled, repeated apology. And then he was telling her she was beautiful, because he had nothing left, nothing else, and she shoved him back towards Giles' office with both hands. 

Shove, stumble, nearly fall, and she was more beautiful than ever. Escape was no longer an option, barely a blip, because he wanted to kiss her, mess up her hair and taste the skin on her face, wanted with a rushing power that deafened him. 

Buffy pushed Oz back against the door; for a split second, he remembered how she'd held him by the throat, the locker rattling behind him. Then she kissed him, her mouth open and insistent, and that changed the meaning of everything. No fear, not even surprise this time, just warmth suffusing him as she pressed against his body. She was soft but strong, yielding but not. 

The kiss was out of tune. Discordant — she was a girl, very much so, curves of breasts and hips that just fitted his palms, but she was kissing _him_ , holding him, moving him around, like a guy would. Authoritative, maybe, definitely assured. 

Comparisons shot out the window. Stupid rules and roles that had never meant much to begin with, because Oz _liked_ kissing her, liked how she kissed back and held his head and nipped his lip. Liked the wrinkle of concentration in her forehead, liked the taste of her tongue gliding over his. 

You are what you act like, you become by doing, and her hair came loose in his hand, spilling softly, and she smiled against his neck as she pushed her fingers up under his shirt. 

God. She tasted so _good_. 

Felt even better, strong and flexing under his palms, and even if she didn't want to remember what strength she possessed, he couldn't forget. He didn't want to forget it. Her strength was one more contradiction in the midst of so many; the hand that choked him, that could kill monsters, was soft and tasted like old coffee and trailed swathes of heat over his chest, down his hip. 

"More —" he said, meaning it as a question but it came out as a demand. 

She pulled a little ways back, mouth curving into a smile he was sure he'd never seen on her as she turned her hand and drew her nails over his stomach. She looked up through her lashes at him, the smile widening, as he shivered and gulped. 

Testing him, maybe. Teasing him, definitely. It was time for another decision. He could pull away, or tease her back, but he didn't have to. He let the shivers run through him and tipped his head back against the wall and asked, _really_ asked, "Please, Buffy? More?" 

"Take off your shirt," she said and shook out her hair. "Lie down." 

He complied, stumbling back onto the old couch. His breath was doing weird cartwheels, puncturing his chest and rasping. Buffy knelt over him, straddling his thighs, and he cupped her knees as she shrugged off her cardigan and unbuttoned her uniform top. 

Glimpse of a breast's swell, expanse of shoulder, and then she grabbed him by the wrists. For a second he thought she was going to tie him up, and that idea doubled and fanned all the heat beating through him, but she did something better. 

Buffy frowned in concentration as she brought his hands up to her chest, placing them on her breasts, pressing them hard. 

His fingers curled over the edges of her bra, his thumbs sweeping back and forth until her nipples hardened and stood up. 

Her hips moving, her head falling forward, she touched his chest with fingernails and pinches. Her eyes closed but he kept his eyes open, spreading his legs, rocking up to meet her, scoring her breasts and tugging them out of her bra. 

She wasn't looking at him. She was, he knew, doing this for other reasons. Thinking about someone else, grieving and hiding in the lie. 

That didn't mean it didn't feel good, nor that she wasn't beautiful like this, rising above him, skin going damp and mouth opening. 

He did whatever she wanted. Asked her, teased it out, and did more, until she was red and gold and her hair dark with sweat as she took him inside, grimacing and crying out, and she rode him until he was slack and spent. She continued moving, squeezing out more and more, nails in his skin, teeth in his neck, breath gone guttural and foul, and he hardened and fucked up inside her again. 

* 

That's how it started. 

Well, how _half_ of it started. Oz would need to do graduate-level work in geometry to account for all the different angles and velocities and assorted qualities of _it_. 

"She could, like. Break you," Devon's insisting, pinching Oz, making him come back. His face is creased up in what passes for worry. He drops his voice and cups Oz's dick. "Break the little guy, even." 

Oz laughs, guttery and hoarse, and has to roll over to spit. Wiping his mouth, he rolls back over, shaking his head. "Pretty sure she's not _that_ strong." 

"I don't know, man, my cousin Jared, he knows this guy who —" 

Oz kisses him. Shuts him up, lets the quiet steal back over. 

He's kissing Devon, has been kissing him for several minutes now, tongue gone gummy and half-numb, hands still on sweaty skin as they rock their crotches together, when the thought comes to him. 

Just one thought, but it's the clearest thing he's felt-known-thought in months, maybe years. Clear as a telegram in an old movie, block letters dark as night on snow-white paper. 

He's a little (a lot) in love with them both. With who they are, each of them, girl and man, Buffy and Angel, and with the conjunction. With what they are together, how they look at each other (constantly), how they can't speak in each other's presence, how —. 

All of it. He pulls Devon over, on top, flattens himself under the familiar weight and sucks on Devon's lower lip until it swells in his teeth, and he's almost crying. 

Almost, but not all the way. And not just because Devon would slap him if he did. 

  


## ii. Buffy

She shouldn't be this fidgety. Buffy _knows_ she shouldn't be this fidgety. _God_ , she can hold a stake, a crossbow, a _quarterstaff_ , and fight with it, but she's standing here with nothing in her hands, looking at Angel, and she's fidgeting. 

He's in the shadows from the fire, leaning against a jagged, broken-off piece of the wall, arms loosely crossed. For a second, he looks likes Giles; then she blinks, tightens her hands into fists, and he looks like Angel again. Like the mansion itself, sharp edges and invisible wear. Age, and more. Marble and plaster, monuments. Beauty out of age. 

"It's just -" She swallows. How many times is she going to have to do this? This isn't saying goodbye. This is saying _it's over_. Goodbye is easier. (Killing him was easier.) "Just. There's -" 

She squares her shoulder. Act like it's a fight. Pretend Angel's a vampire. 

No. A _bad_ vampire. And she should, like, channel Faith. 

"There's someone else?" She meant for that to sound definitive. It came out squeaky. 

"Oz." Angel's tone is flat. 

Whoosh. Whoosh-dizzy-*damn. If she thought she was fidgety before, that's _nothing_ compared to the stumbling-dizzies flying through her right now. _How did he know?_ If it has _anything_ to do with vampire-sniffing powers, she's going to be seriously grossed out. 

Not the point, Buffy. She tightens her jaw hard enough to hear a click and tries to sound innocent. "Oz?" 

But Angel's looking past her now. His eyes are dark, she can't quite see them, but the angle is past her, over her shoulder, down into the hallway. 

She's never seen where Angel sleeps, not here. She's wondered, too, why he stays _here_ , here where he lived with Spike and Drusilla, why here is preferable to his old apartment. 

* 

"Least he didn't go back to the factory," Oz had said. 

A couple days ago, when she was talking about Angel (again, always). His arm tightened around her shoulder when he said "factory" and she knew what he was thinking. To her, the factory is where Giles went crazy-vigilante, where Angel sneered at her and threw every single piece of her heart back in her face. 

For him, though, the factory's even worse. 

"Sorry," she said and tipped her face into the curve of his shoulder. Her body keeps getting surprised at the smallness, the _neatness_ of Oz. She could lose herself against Angel - his arms were always longer than she expected, his shoulders wider - but against Oz, she simply fit, no room to spare. "Never mind." 

"S'okay," he said and worked his fingers through her hair, up from the nape of her neck, loosening the damp snarls and scritching his blunt nails over her scalp. 

Buffy closed her eyes and let herself feel the touch. 

* 

"Oz," Angel says again now, louder this time, and Buffy finds herself turning. Like Angel's gaze is a fishing line, _A River Runs Through It_ , or a high wire, and she's turning, following, and slowly, finally, confusedly _seeing_. 

Oz. Oz standing there at the end of the hallway. Bare-chested and he's so _skinny_ , his shirt dangling from his hand, his old gray cords low on his pointy hips. Barefoot, wet-haired, _Oz_. 

"Hmm," he says, and he's not quite looking at Buffy, but he's not looking at Angel, either. He's got big eyes in such a sharp face and it's like he's looking at the room, at them all, at something even bigger. "Yeah, we should probably. Talk." 

Buffy laughs so hard she wants to double over. 

_Talk_. Right, because that's going to happen with these two. 

  


## iii. Angel

For Angel, it started earlier. Of course it was earlier; he'd been on earth too long. Below earth, swimming through the seas, leviathan and corpse all the same. Decades were motes and he was wearier than they could imagine. 

What happens when inspiration strikes the weary? He'd dragged himself across the continent (again), seen a girl change before his eyes, and dark mirrors were still mirrors. Still silvered, still reflecting what they captured. 

He started to hope, that's what happened. 

Another trick of reanimation, this inspiration. Breath, life, soul, all credible illusions. First came a demon in the blood, then the ravaging scorch of a soul, and now, two hundred years after he should have died, this. Her. Gold and cream, lips reddened with candy, and _I shall know even as also I am known_. 

He was new to Sunnydale, new to the _world_ , dazzled and baffled in equal measure. He kept to the shadows, tracked rumors, followed the Slayer, chased down hope with silent footfalls. 

Whistler bought him clothes before he left, and Angel wore them uneasily, uncertain of their fit, their appearance, whether he even deserved this much. But he was among people now, the demon reminded him, and he couldn't exactly wear the rags that had been his shelter, his crypt, for decades. 

At the Bronze, he hugged the wall, searching the crowd for her, willing her to appear. 

Through the shifting bodies - people danced strangely these days, erratically, without any grace, and the sight made him slightly dizzy - he caught a glimpse of gold hair. Brilliant in the roving lights, incandescent for half a moment, then the line of a narrow waist, twisting like a spill of water, pale skin between shirt and waistband. He leaned forward, squinting, but it was not her. 

Far from it; it was a boy, a child nothing like her, and he sagged back. Desire had nothing on hope. He was merely the object of illusions, never the subject, never the creator. 

So many dancers, such infernal noise, grinding and clanking, that tried to pass for music. Angel thought about leaving; Buffy would not be here tonight. 

"Nice jacket," a soft voice said from his blind spot. 

He didn't know how to talk to people. Angel turned, blinked, saw the boy-who-was-not-Buffy and bobbed his head. "Thank you." 

He was not Buffy; how could he have ever mistaken _this_ \- slight and sparsely built as he was, he was still squared-off and linear, all boy, without a curve beyond the one of his smile - for _her_? 

"Costume or lifestyle?" the boy asked as he tucked himself against the wall and gazed up, unblinking and strangely grave, at Angel. 

"Huh?" 

That night at the Bronze was, it transpired, something called "Goth Night", which apparently explained the boy's - Oz's, his name was Oz - kohl'd eyes and dark clothes. Angel listened, as best he could, through the growl of music, made conversation that sputtered and died, attempted (and failed) to evade Oz's still, steady gaze. 

There had to be some way to extricate himself gracefully; the longer he stood here, the longer he let wide, depthless eyes move back and forth, taking him in, the more difficult the escape became. 

"Look -" Angel started to say when a sweep of red hair and an accompanying whinnying laugh distracted him. Willow and Xander. Out of habit, he turned his face away, but not before checking whether Buffy was with them. She wasn't, but they were getting closer. 

"A dare," Oz said at the same time. "What?" 

Angel took Oz's elbow (sharp bone, so close to the surface, roar of blood) and led him out the nearest exit. 

The strange thing was, Oz let him do so; Oz followed, ambling jerkily, all the way to the end of the alley. 

"Sorry," Angel said and released him. His palm burned, itched faintly, at the contact with human skin and he had to repress the urge to wipe it on his pants. Oz tilted his head slightly and stared again. Despite habit and his better instincts, Angel heard himself telling the truth. "Saw some people I...didn't want to see." 

"It's cool." Oz shifted his weight and the motion tugged up his brief shirt. White skin, nearly aquatic under the streetlight, and still eyes. "I was starting to get the feeling you weren't." He paused, sucking in the corner of his mouth and looking briefly away. "Interested." 

_Interested_. Angel could not, for several long moments, make himself understand what the word meant. A crack in the mind, a failure to connect, sense slipping through the gap: he heard the syllables, linked them together, and still came up empty-handed. 

He studied his palms, then glanced at Oz, and then - Oz flicked his tongue over his upper lip, scratched at his neck (nails in skin, memories older than this boy's grandparents), and desire flared out past hope. 

Then Angel was not empty-handed. He was interested. 

He had an armful of boy, tiptoes and gripping fingers and open, searching mouth, and - _this_ was what interested meant. For human beings, for little boys up too late, out at night, trusting the stranger. For Angel, so close he could no longer see, could barely reflect, could only touch-inhale-grasp. Take and kiss back, lift the child up, stumble against a wall, gasp at the erection scoring into his hip. 

* 

It had been a dare. Oz tried to tell him that night, but Angel didn't understand until weeks (months?) later just what that meant. _You think you're hot?_ Devon had said, laced the pot, and set Oz out on the dance floor, _Prove it. Pick up a guy. A guy who is not me._

All Angel knew that night was that it was a case of mistaken identity. Not Oz for Buffy, or not simply that, but Angel for - for something better, someone human. 

Oz was limber and eager, hanging on with one hand around Angel's neck, one leg wrapped around Angel's thigh, tilting up against the wall and scrabbling against gravity, trousers open and mouth open wider, heat and holes, his dick pulsing in Angel's grip, his teeth shining with starlight. He slipped down, pants around his thighs, to his knees, tipping forward, all still gravity vanished in a flow of white skin and bright warmth, hands on Angel's hips, mouth open, reaching, and Angel fell. 

Fell without moving, fell as he tugged the zipper down, braced one hand on filthy brick and let Oz in, let heat jump solar-bright and -strong, let a mouth work him over and eyes flicker on his, pumped his hips and he forgot where he was, who he was supposed to be trying to be, forgot it all save for _this_. This mistake, this sin, the slick welcome of tongue where only his own dry palm had been, and he pushed harder than he should have, grabbed blond hair that was too short to be Buffy and _thrust_. 

This was not hunger, and this was far from hope, but the eyes on him had darkened in Angel's shadow, leaving only a porcelain mask, tight and still, disfigured by the lump of Angel's prick thrusting in, and then deeper, and when Angel came, his palm came away bloody, torn by the wall, and the stink of come mingled with food. 

He would never do this again. Angel promised himself, swore on the light of the surface of the puddles around them, as he helped the boy up (blood on white skin, don't look, inky marks the spot). He licked his thumb and started to clean Oz's mouth, beads (pearls) of come and sweat that sparkled. But Oz wrapped his arms around Angel, started it all over again, flame-mouth and sharp teeth, stumbling, grasping. 

It happened again; he did it again. There, in the alley, and at his apartment. Several more times, _many_ more times. He should have lost count but counting (decades, beads, victims and sins) was what Angel _did_. 

* 

Oz was his first mistake in Sunnydale. Just the first, and far less notable, in the passage of time, than other, subsequent ones. Fucking a kid on a semi-regular basis, then telling him to date girls: that hardly compared to what he'd done to Buffy, to the rest of them. To Giles. Jenny. 

"Not a problem," Oz said when Angel tried to apologize. Some weeks ago now, late autumn, after an aborted patrol with Buffy, and he'd found Oz hunched on the stairs to the garden, arms around his knees. Waiting. 

"No, really," Oz insisted, if Oz could ever be said to _insist_ on anything. Verbally, that is. "We all -" He glanced around the living room, studied the fire, then shifted closer to Angel on the couch. "Make mistakes." 

Hellfire was regret, brimstone was sweet in the face of Buffy's tears, and it was easy to let Oz move yet closer again. 

"It doesn't mean anything." 

Oz might have said that, Angel might have thought it. It was a lie, whatever the source, but Oz kissed differently now, more deeply, smoothly. Skillfully, and as Angel palmed the back of his skull and pulled Oz onto his lap, that was another loss to mourn. To try like hell to make up for. 

"Besides, you were kinda right. I do like girls. Too." 

  


## iv. Them

"Well?" Buffy says. "Weren't we going to _talk_?" 

Angel sits in his big armchair, hands on his knees, the firelight licking along his jaw. Buffy collapsed huffily onto the couch next to Oz, and Oz, Oz is in the middle. 

But not. 

Geometry, Oz thinks, not for the first time. It's not Euclidean, because there are vectors and untraceable antecedents and influences; if anything, it's astrological. Weights, omens, everything in constant shifting patterns, constellations that we make up and then believe in. 

Nominally, factually, he's in the middle, but _nothing_ gets between Buffy and Angel. If death, hell, and grief didn't, then one shorter-than-average wolfboy can't. Let alone _want_ to. 

The question that occurs to him - and, granted, he knows this is about as stupid an approach as he could possibly dream up, short of, like, asking Xander for dating tips - is, _What Would Devon Do?_

Because Devon's not a part of anything bigger than his own swollen, throbbing ego. Death is something that happens to other people, old and ugly people, if Devon's to be believed, and _prophecy_ doesn't mean anything other than the word he uses when he intends to say _prodigy_. Devon is, compared to this dark room overrunning with angst and simmering with recrimination, a beacon of mellow. 

Oz nods to himself, earning a jab in the ribs from Buffy and a twitch of the eyebrow from Angel. Ignoring both, he slides his hand under Buffy's, twining their fingers together, and then, moving quickly, he's on his feet, knee on the cushion between Angel's legs, tipping forward and tugging Buffy with him. 

Kissing the fire's refraction on Angel's cheek, pulling Buffy closer, wrapping an arm around each one. 

_This_ is what Devon would do: Make the most of it. Have a good time. 

"But not," he says, breaking Angel's kiss and resting his cheek against Buffy's chest, " _too_ good. Circuit breaker, that's me." 

Which is, kind of anyway, a lie. He's not the guard dog, he's no one safety valve; he's going to get as much out of this as anyone else. Maybe more. 

Buffy clears her throat. In the firelight, her cheek and neck are russet, autumnal, something like a fresco, and Oz touches her with wondering fingers. 

"I want to see the bedroom," she says, shaking off the touch. 

Angel is motionless below them, dark (eyes, hair) and slightly less so (cheek, mouth). He doesn't say anything, doesn't _move_ , just stays there. Just is. 

When Buffy kisses Oz, lightly, a peck on his earlobe that swings into a real kiss, Angel blinks. 

* 

There are banquets in hell, buffets and temptation, memories formed into sweetmeats, game-birds, wine that flows effortlessly. The damned dine together, shriek and repent over the cheese course, weep into their salads. Every night, every moment not on the rack, they dine. 

And it all tastes like ash, like the air when Buffy's perfume has finally evaporated. Like Oz's skin since Willow left him. 

This is another feast, spread out before Angel, just within reach, and Tantalus has it _easy_. 

But when Buffy touches the back of Angel's hand, looks at him over Oz's shoulder, when it all comes down to her narrow shoulders and the spill of her hair, nothing can stop the hunger that screams open its maw and devours the last scraps of his conscience. 

"All right," Angel hears himself say. He stands, waits, and follows them down the hall. 

They might be the slayer and a werewolf, they might have grief in their veins and memories that no one should possess, but they fall and tumble onto his bed like children. Nothing like the other children, no trace of madness and spite, Dru and Spike, yet he smiles down at them, vaguely, indulgently. 

Indulgence, a remission of sins, a spiritual economy that long ago passed out of favor. But Angel is a revenant and he functions according to its logic, its counts and totals. 

And they are beautiful together, matched, tan and pale, bristly boy and fluid girl, hands under clothing and eyes darting to check on him. He kneels at the foot of the bed, gets a better line of sight, and they are on him, puppies romping and birds singing, small hands on his clothes, stripping him, laying him bare. 

Whips, cats o'nine tails, razor wire hurt less than the soft, quick strokes of their fingers, the care in their eyes. He cannot, will not, touch Buffy, but she will not look away. She watches him, even as she kisses Oz, as she tugs her shirt off over her head, always, already, watching him back and the thirst for her mouth is overwhelming. 

He mutters half a prayer, addressed to Oz, no God interceding. Nowhere near God, just a pretty boy who's burying his face in Buffy's breasts. _For her_ , he whispers, and _make her feel good_ , and Oz appears to nod. Reaches back blindly for Angel's hand as he slides lower. Off the bed, onto his knees, kissing Buffy's stomach, making it flex concave, then convex. Her moans flutter like wings. 

Angel settles behind Oz, arm around Oz's chest, groin against Oz's ass, and time spills out in beads snapped from their string, skittering, scattering, and he does not know how long he kneels here, half-drunk on the scent of her, the sight of her, the _fact_ of her. 

Buffy, gold light striking steel, mirror and heart and murderer. 

He never should have had this in the first place. He has it again, mediated, whispering to Oz, working his hand down to Oz's dick and chokeholding it, slow and steady, as Buffy lifts off the bed, pushes into Oz's face, thrashes. 

Their first/only night together, she was small, wet, scared. Eager and hungry, but _tiny_. Stray kitten seeking shelter and warmth, fingers like claws, shredding the edges of his will and his soul. 

Now, she is open, open and moving, horizon-wide. One leg up, foot flat on the bed as she lifts and falls, thrusts and moans. Oz shakes in his hold, grunts and murmurs into Buffy, mouth on her clit, three fingers inside, head down and shoulders drawn up. Like prayer, like dying, and Angel speeds his strokes. 

"She likes it," he whispers, his voice broken. 

Buffy lifts her head in time with her hips. Her cheeks are red, her irises blown black and deep. "Do you?" 

She means him. Angel cannot answer. On the next dip of Oz's mouth, the wet gurgles and slurps that Angel cannot help but associate with Darla and blood, with thirst and hunger and _need_ , Buffy falls back down, bounces, and pulls her knee to her chest. 

Exposes everything, and Oz has clearly done this before, and more, because he rises on his knees, following her smoothly. Angel goes with him, thumb and forefinger around the base of Oz's jumping cock, watching and tasting and scenting the air. She is - _open_ and blood-red, shining and slick and Oz is babbling into her, his face sticky and shining, too. Angel grinds against Oz's ass, pinches off Oz's threatening orgasm, urges him on. 

"Harder, more, now —" The babble of sex is always the same. The _need_ is always the same, whatever the state of one's soul, its absence or presence. Buffy's thighs are wet, her clit swollen, the hair plastered back and dark. Her face is distant, an open mouth and slitted eyes, and her entire body is a bow, an arrow, a tense, trembling _need_ that arches up higher and sweeter as Angel presses Oz's face forward. 

"Do it, do it," he chants, teeth in Oz's earlobe, Oz's pulse hammering against his chin, "please —" He's begging for her, for himself, grinding in sloppy jerks against that firm, _tiny_ ass, his hand slicking with pre-come. "Do it and I'll —" 

Buffy is coming then, arching and falling, clenching her legs around Oz's head. Something taking flight, singing as it goes, and the waves come and come, dragging him with Oz along, and forward, until they fall. 

Until he's on his hands and knees, crouched over Oz, feeling the narrow, muscular body shake against his chest. 

On the floor, stuck together, and Buffy is above them, beyond them, on the bed, the only trace of her presence the thunder of her retreating breath. 

Oz's ass rolls up against Angel's cock, friction-burn of his trousers more than he can take, and he frees one hand to tug down the zipper. Oz groans at the sound, at the sudden slide of skin on skin, and Angel nips on his shoulder. 

"Look at me," he says, voice still broken but without a hint of plea. 

Oz starts to turn his body over, but Angel pins him. Tugs at his puzzling hair (cobalt and black this week, and he couldn't understand why Oz laughed when Angel complimented him with full sincerity on his "Goth look") so Oz is straining to look over his shoulder. 

His cheek is mottled with red patches, his lips parted as he pants. Angel licks the taste of Buffy off all the skin he can reach. Licks and sucks it up until the patches melt together and Oz is gasping, struggling in his hold. 

Lick and kisses harder then, pushing his hips forward, cock riding the crack of Oz's ass, his mouth punishing the hunger and seeking it out all at once. 

"Are you —?" The mattress groans and suddenly Buffy is there, hovering, looming over them. Her gaze drops. "Are you gonna —. To, with — with him?" 

Oz takes advantage of Angel's distraction, tries to wriggle free, and Angel presses him back down. Rolls his hips again, harder, for emphasis, as he says, "Depends." 

* 

The summer after they buried the Master, the summer he broke Oz without quite meaning to, Oz asked Angel to fuck him. Several times, each time with perfect trust and determination. He'd gotten into his head, from God knows where, but probably his cretinous friend, that being gay meant — this. Sodomy, buggery, screwing. And they tried that many times, doing everything right (lubrication had undergone far more developments than Angel would have thought possible) but they only succeeded once. Once, when Oz was drunk and Angel wasn't expecting anything, and —. 

It was wrong, and glorious, terrible and breathtaking. Small boy, tiny hole, and pink that turned red wherever Angel touched him, moans that broke into stuttered whimpers, and so, so tight that Angel's eyes rolled back in his head. 

A warm body, flexing beneath him, welcoming him, and Angel didn't know _what_ was wrong, not then, but he knew enough to send the temptation away. For Oz's own good. That was the last time he saw Oz; it was the next morning that he pushed the boy out the door and told him to find a girlfriend. Drizzling rain caught on Oz's eyelashes as he looked back. 

* 

"On what?" Buffy asks, thickly, confused and distracted. Angel looks like someone else, like someone she hasn't seen since Acathla, holding Oz down, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth stained with kissing. 

"On whether you want to instead." 

She's not dumb, not about certain things, but for the life of her, Buffy can't figure out what Angel's talking about. Or why Oz grunts like he usually only does just before he comes, dropping his head onto his arms as his hips jerk up and down. Or why Angel licks the back of Oz's neck and whispers too low to hear to him, making Oz shudder and groan again, rubbing his back and the side of his hip before he sits back on his knees. 

"Christ," Oz says, muffled against his arm. He's splayed out there on the floor, all bones and flushed skin, his ass round like an upended bowl, and there are streaks and scratches all over him. "Please, Jesus." 

He looks - there's not a word she can think of, not one that's not totally wrong and immoral - he looks _like he wants it_. 

Whatever it is, whatever she has to do with it. 

Buffy swallows a couple times. "All right. Yeah, I — I will." 

_Do what?_ She doesn't know, but Oz raises his head slowly, like it's filled with concrete, and looks at her. He smiles, shakily, waveringly, and he hasn't smiled, not like that, in _months_. 

Buffy nods again. "Yeah. I want to." 

She wants to take it back as soon as Angel shows her the harness. Like a garter belt, made out of leather, a hole at the front for — "Oh, _God_ , what is that?" 

Angel doesn't say anything; Oz has crawled up onto the bed and he's watching her fixedly, arms crossed over his chest. "For your cock." 

She wants to laugh, or run away, or _something_ , but Angel just keeps holding out the stuff, harness in one hand, weird rubber penis in the other, and Oz nods at her. 

She's not sure when, exactly, she realized that Oz knows more than he ever lets on. Early on, though, back when he was first seeing Willow. (And, no, no thinking best-friend thoughts, not _now_.) What's even less clear is when she developed the need to figure out just what Oz knows. That's far more recent, but it just stole up on her, and she can't begin to put her finger on when, or how. 

He wants this, she knows that much, and there's a set to Angel's jaw and fixedness in his gaze that suggests he does, too. So Buffy takes the harness, steps into it and decides not to wonder _why_ Angel has these kinds of things just _laying around_. 

When she turns back around and Angel palms her hips to help slip the dildo in, she almost jumps. His hands are warmer than usual, from _Oz_ , and she should feel jealous, shouldn't she? Even if that's totally unfair, because — hello, sleeping with Oz herself, cheating on Angel _and_ her best friend, but she's not. Not jealous. She leans back against him, lets him tighten the straps, and the whole time, Oz is watching them. Her. Half-lying back on one arm now, his legs kind of akimbo, and anxiety flickers fast through her at the _thought_ of what she's about to do. 

Angel steadies her, guides her over to the bed, and the anxiety brightens into something more, something almost worse, when Oz is _there_ , pulling her down, kissing her. He smells like her, and like Angel, and like himself, and his hands are on the harness's straps, plucking at them and soothing her skin, pinching and circling, and if she closes her eyes, maybe this will feel right. 

No such luck, not with the mattress dipping as Angel sits behind Oz, not with Oz's cock riding alongside the heavy rubber one between her legs. The base of it is rubbing her mound, catching her clit sometimes, and Buffy swallows hard. It feels surprisingly good, strangely right, like her hips know what they're doing. And the friction is _very_ good, unpredictable and unfamiliar, reinvigorating her, making her gasp now and again into Oz's mouth. 

"Get him ready," Angel says the next time Buffy comes up for air, and what is he, Joe Friday? Just the facts, and nothing shows on his face. "I'll do it." 

His hand is as big, or nearly so, as Oz's face, and Buffy watches, fascinated and kind of hypnotized, as Angel touches Oz's chest, sweeps down past his cock and nudges his legs more widely open. There's a bottle of lube and Oz is reaching down with it, brushing against Angel's fingers, and she doesn't know _what_ they're doing. 

Only that it looks bizarre and _good_ , Oz's blue nail polish and Angel's long fingers, both of them so pale, and Oz's breath hitches, then holds, and Buffy's catches, too, when she realizes what they're doing. 

Oz is half-twisted up against Angel, head against Angel's chest, his legs falling open, and they're _touching_ him down there, behind his balls, stroking lube over his hole and inside. In and out, slow, one of Angel's fingers, two of Oz's, a rhythm of breathing and sighing, and Buffy's hips rock a little, build up a little more friction, watching them. 

One of Oz's eyes opens, looks at her, and he raises his head. Tries to smile at her before his head falls back and his chest rises and she glances down to see two of Angel's fingers inside, stretching and then just _stopping_. 

"I — I can't do this," she says and Oz's eyes fly open, his body tensing up. "No, I mean — I want to? I just —" She can't look at Oz, can't look at Angel, so she talks to the wall behind them. "How am I supposed to —? 

Angel's hand twitches, the fingers moving out a little way, then back in, and — Jesus, is that what _she_ looks like when someone's inside her? Oz's head is bouncing a little and his toes are digging into the sheets and he looks somehow both tense and blissful. 

She can't breathe. It's like catching the Spice channel by mistake, but — not. Like that, plus like having sex without ever being touched, watching and imagining as Oz moans and Angel's hand twists, as Oz's hips thrust up and his dick bounces off his leg. As Angel looks at her and she could swear he almost smiles. 

"Like that," Oz says and reaches for her. His hand is sticky with lube, but she squeezes it anyway, coming even closer, watching, fascinated, as the hole widens, then closes, and Angel's fingers slip away. "Just like that." 

So here she is, hand on her rubber dick, as Oz lifts up his hips and pulls at her hand, as Angel sits like a stone, like some old statue, _watching_ , and here she is, pressing the dildo's blunt tip against Oz's hole, then freezing. "Like that?" 

Oz is biting his bottom lip, breathing deeply, but Angel nods. "Like that, don't worry. He wants you to." 

There are so many ways that _that_ ought to sound wrong, but Buffy can't stop to think them all through. Oz's hand tightens on her waist and Angel nods again, and, oh _God_ , she presses a little way forward, the pressure on her clit mounting every time her pulse comes, and she's inside, just barely, then more, the hole stretching, taking, the shaft disappearing inside. 

"Fuck," Oz says and Buffy stops. "No, fuck. _Good_." His hand lifts off her waist, finds her left breast, fingers curled. And she's _fucking him up the ass_ , but somehow, God knows how or why, _Oz_ is touching her, just the way she likes, pinching her nipple and making these deep gurgling sounds in his throat. 

Now her hips are moving in time with Oz's hand, her own hands on his knees, and the shaft keeps sliding in and out, deep and angled. His legs wrap around her waist, squeeze, then fall away before wrapping again. His body is tilted back against Angel, and Buffy realizes, suddenly and thoroughly, that she knows how to do this. It's like the first time she picked up a sword — no, bad example. Like the first time she landed a single axel on the rink in Los Angeles. Her body just _follows_ the instinct to move, and Oz bounces a little, hand flying off her, clutching at the sheet, and this is _fun_. This is more than fun, making him gurgle and twist into her thrusts like this, and he's all spread out before her, below her, far more so than even when she's on top and controlling the pace. She's _inside_ him, deeper than she ever dreamed, and her hips snap as she speeds up, the dildo rubbing her clit and the top of her labia, spinning out heat in directions she's never felt before, and she can't look away, can't stop. More than anything in the world, right now she just knows a single thing for sure. 

She wants to make him come, she wants to make _herself_ come, if that's possible, it has to be possible, because she's really got a rhythm now, and Oz is twisted like a snarl of yarn, guttural breaths and pleas and Buffy touches her own breast, just hard enough, fingernails around the nipple, watching Angel watch her fuck Oz. 

"Are you going to come?" she asks and Oz only nods, reaching up, hands closing on empty air, and she slows down a little. "Can you help him come?" 

Angel's mouth is open. Buffy shakes the wet hair out of her eyes, then passes her hand over her sweaty forehead. "Angel, help him." 

Finally, light seems to dawn on him, and Angel nods slowly, gathering Oz up against his chest, touching his thighs, kissing his face. They've got Oz folded up between them now, Buffy rocking her hips faster, Oz whinnying and grunting, and if she bends — just a little, just like that — yes, she can kiss Oz's cheek, then Angel's, and press deep, deeper, hold it there while Angel's hand moves fast on Oz's cock, and she kisses Angel's mouth as he moves. Kisses him for the first time. 

Like it's the first time, his mouth open against hers, his tongue still, everything still. Just holding, holding, and then Oz jerks between them, a little sharp cry and she feels come hit her stomach before he does it again and Angel's hand closes on her upper arm and he kisses back. For a second, half a second, and then Oz comes one last time and Angel pushes her away. 

Buffy lands on her back, across Oz's legs, spent like _she_ just came. Heavy and limp and exhausted, and she can't do anything when Oz curls up next to her, peppering her face with kisses. Can't move, can barely breathe, just lie here and hope she remembers how. 

Over his shoulder, she can dimly make out Angel, holding Oz from behind, watching. Wary and weary and all those things he says she can't understand about him. 

She does, she always has. There ought to be a way to let him know that, but as Buffy reaches to touch him, interlace her fingers with his, it strikes her that maybe Angel's the one who doesn't understand. Not this, anyway, not yet. 

* 

Oz is cold, and sore, and he's developing a kink in his neck, and all the same, right now in that stupid, selfish space post-orgasm, he can't remember _ever_ feeling quite this good. Buffy's lying next to him, dozing a little, with Angel lying behind him. 

Oz is never in the middle, can't even see how that's possible, so what _is_ this? 

When he turns, Angel is looking at him, eyes wide and brown, looking up at him through his lashes, and Oz can only nod. He doesn't know what _this_ is, why his chest feels so tight but his veins like they're filled with laughing gas, why Buffy's murmuring and shifting behind him, what Angel could possibly be thinking right now. 

But the thing is, that's okay. It has to be okay, and Oz shushes Angel who's shuddering now, bucking hard, as Oz touches his prick, slips his other hand down to Angel's heavy balls, and he tilts in, kissing him slow and shallow as he strokes sure and fast. It's okay, it's all okay, and Buffy's here, too, pulling Oz down and they kiss, briefly, before they're down here, licking Angel's shaft, the head of his cock, tracking out veins and textures, and Angel's big arms, wingspan like a goddamn _eagle_ , are closing around them, pulling them up, his orgasm coming as he hauls them against his chest. 

When Buffy comes, Oz has learned, she looks like Wonder Woman, fresh off the island, drinking everything in. When Angel comes, it's more like Leonard Bernstein, conducting, powerful and enraptured. But now, this time, Angel's the one who's wide-eyed, surprised, his body shaking hard enough to rattle the headboard, and they just clutch at him, holding on until the storm passes. 

Oz isn't between them; there's no between, not right now. Not later, either, as Angel sinks back downward. They lie, half atop him, half on either side of him. Not for a while yet. 


End file.
